


Theirs Is Not to Reason Why

by Irollforinitiative



Series: Theirs Is Not to Reason Why [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Meetings, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 17:30:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irollforinitiative/pseuds/Irollforinitiative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 1: Greg Lestrade comes to know a younger Sherlock Holmes and their friendship begins.  However, Sherlock comes with baggage and that baggage is an over protective brother, Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Theirs Is Not to Reason Why

Greg Lestrade ran his hand over his face.  It was a habit of his when he was tired or stressed.  Every time he did it, for just a moment, he was able to pretend that when he opened his eyes again things would be different. He’d open his eyes and not see a dank alley way.  He’d open his eyes and there’d be no body.  He’d open his eyes and there’d be more witnesses than an old dealer and a young man passed out in the gutter. It never worked.  He opened his eyes and saw the same sight that was destined to keep him up all night.

Young woman, 26, found dead in an alley way.  Killed by blunt trauma to the back of her head.  The only people that saw the crime had nothing useful to say.  One of them was a 65 year old drug dealer that had spent so much of his life high that he couldn’t remember where he was for more than five minutes. The other was a strikingly handsome man who looked to be mid-twenties but was still passed out from a heavy dose of cocaine. The medical team was working on sobering him up in hopes that maybe, somehow, he saw something before he shot up and passed out.  It always broke Greg’s heart to see someone so young that immersed in drugs.  He was grimy and his black curls were ashen with dirt.  His thin arms were pale and marked with lines and scars from his regular injections. His drug of choice and clothes suggested he came from money.  What a waste of a life of potential. A groan brought Greg out of his thoughts.  The young man was coming ‘round. He strode over and leaned over the gurney.

“Hello, do you know where you are?” Greg’s kind words were met with an icy stare from sunken eyes.

“Obviously.  I’m not an imbecile.” The young man was sitting up and waving away the medics still around him.  His eyes were focused solely on Greg with a stare that seemed far too penetrative for comfort.  Greg shifted.

“Okay, well, there’s been a crime and we were wondering if you’d seen anything.” The young man leaned around Greg to look at the body.  “No.  I can’t say I did.”

Greg sighed and nodded. 

“Thanks.  That’s all.” The blue eyes were on him again along with all the medics’.

“You’re not going to bring me in for drugs?” It was the usual course of action in a situation such as this.  Greg ran a hand over his face again and shrugged.

“You don’t have any in your possession.  You’re awake now.  It won’t do anyone any good to bring you in so just…scurry along your merry way.” He turned back to the scene and willed himself to see something he didn’t. 

“It wasn’t passion.”

Greg turned and frowned. “What?”

“The crime.  It wasn’t one of passion.  The weapon wasn’t anything around here or anything easily obtained around an area such as this.  The shape and angle suggest a cricket bat.  One  doesn’t just carry a cricket bat around so that means it was premeditated.  Not a crime of passion.” Greg stared at him for a moment before extending his hand.

“Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.” The young man got off the gurney and sniffed disdainfully at the offered hand.

“Sherlock Holmes.  And you’re new to that title. It’s still awkward for you to say.  You need this to succeed.  And I need a distraction.  So let me help you.” Greg stared at him.  A wan and wild looking man, but there was something else.  Something in this man’s eyes that spoke of a hunger and a need for action.  The same hunger and need that Greg used to have.  The hunger and need that drove him to police work in the first place.  And this Sherlock fellow was right.  He needed a win. His first two months as a D.I. were filled with unsolved cases.  His mother had lived her life by the motto that the biggest risks were always the best. She’d been so happy.  So vibrant.  Always so right.  So, while Greg was often much more conservative in his choices that she had been, when he wasn’t sure what to do he lived by her example. Following her example had gotten him here, his dream job.  So he nodded, following it again.

“Okay, Mr. Holmes, what do you see?”

“Sherlock. And I see far too much.  But here, I see enough.  A lover. Back of the head suggests she turned her back willingly, something you only do with those you trust.  But she was cheating.  The necklace is cheap but she smells of an expensive men’s cologne.  One of those doesn’t belong to the man who killed her.  The bat, as I said before, means it was premeditated, so he knew.  He’d probably known for some time.  She’s of the age where she’ll have a best mate.  I’ll assume you’ve got an identity for her.  Phone up the best mate, ask her where the boyfriend lives and test his cricket bat for traces of this woman’s blood. It will be there.  But he’s got a lot of bats.  Probably plays cricket.  It will be his favorite one.  The one in his room. Near his bed.  It’s loved.  That’s why he used it.” Greg stared.  His eyes roamed over the body and saw all the things Sherlock had pointed out.  He’d seen it all, just never noticed. Still slightly in shock he turned to his new sergeant, Sally.  

“Sally go…go do that.” She frowned and nodded, backing up quickly like Sherlock might bite her if she stayed too long. “How’d you do that?”

“I observed.”

“Can you always do that?”

“Sadly, yes.”

“With a mind like that, what are you doing passed out in an alley way, high as a kite?” Sherlock turned at looked at him with empty eyes.

“Because a mind like mine never stops working and if you do not properly oil an engine…”

“It blows itself up.”

“Exactly.” He smiled mournfully. “I cannot find anything save for drugs to adequately divert and consume my attention.”

“What about this? Police work, I mean.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Yes, because years of training would mix beautifully with my disposition.”

“No I mean detective work.  Private detective work, or even just helping and consulting for me.  You could save so many lives. Solve so many crimes.” Greg’s mind was filled with the possibility of what a person like Sherlock could do.  To be able to glance at a crime scene and suss it all out in minutes.  It was a gift. Sherlock stared at his hands, seemingly lost in thought. 

“A consulting detective.  Yes, that’s got a nice ring.  But would it work? Could it work?” He suddenly looked up at Greg sharply. “Could you do it? Could you entertain me? Keep me distracted? Let me solve puzzles?” He was advancing on Greg, but the older man held his ground and smiled a little. 

“You clean up so I can actually show you to proper society and I’ll bring you in on cases like this, the hard ones that we can’t just solve.”

Sherlock’s face fell.

“I…I have no flat to go to anymore. Nowhere to go to clean up and look presentable. I’ll stop drugs but I can’t…be normal.” Greg’s mouth open and spoke without his permission.

“Stay with me.” Sherlock stared at him, perplexed.

“What?”

“Stay with me ‘till you can get a place of your own.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because, the biggest risks are always the best.”

“What does that mean?” Sherlock frowned at him.

“It means the riskier something is, the more you can gain from it.  And you’re the biggest risk I’ve ever seen.  Just think what I could gain.”

 

Greg had witnessed a lot of people detoxing from drugs. They screamed and shook.  They vomited and cried.  They became manic and then crashed and slept for days.  Sherlock Holmes, however, did none of this.  He sat on Greg’s couch and stared at his hands.  For days he sat there, unmoving.  Never touched the food Greg sat out for him, but the water always disappeared when no one was looking. Greg didn’t lock Sherlock in.  He didn’t go out of his way.  Their deal was that Sherlock could stay there as long as he was clean, but getting clean was up to him.  After being sober and finished detoxing for a full week, Greg would give him a case. So Sherlock sat.  And stared.  And Greg went about his business.  After four days, while he was eating cheap Chinese takeaway, Sherlock moved.  The young man reached forward and picked up the container of food that Greg had sat in front of him and ate it all quickly.  Then he stood and walked to the kitchen, picking up an apple from the bowl on the table.  He tossed it in the air and caught it before grinning cheekily and taking a bite. 

“Well then.  One week from today I get a case.” He leaned against the counter. 

Greg sat awkwardly for a moment, silent, before he spoke. “So…you’re okay?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and nodded. “Yes.  Detoxification over.  Ready to sit here and be bored out of my skull for a full week to appease your anxieties.”

Greg frowned. “I’ve never seen someone go through a detox and just…sit there.”

“I was focusing on the task at hand.  The goal.  I don’t let my body control my mind.  I never have.” He shrugged and spoke with a patronizing tone. Greg only stared at Sherlock and silently cursed his mother. Sherlock was about to become a massive handful, and he knew it.

As the next week passed, Greg’s worries were proven to be correct.  Sherlock was snippy and antsy. By midweek he’d read all of Greg’s books and had taken to pacing angrily and shouting about the banality of the flat.  For a few hours on Friday, Greg had strongly considered just giving Sherlock a case even though Monday would mark a full week of sobriety for Sherlock.  Thankfully when Greg presented Sherlock with a laptop and told him, “You can’t kip on my couch forever.  Find a flat,” Sherlock had been acceptably distracted.  That weekend Greg had gone with Sherlock to visit a flatshare Sherlock had found an ad for.  The man was nice enough and the flat was fairly nice.  Greg had no idea where Sherlock was going to get the money from, but Sherlock didn’t seem worried.  He made a mental note to talk to someone at the Yard about being able to pay Sherlock for the consulting work once he started doing it. Before he knew it, Monday had arrived and Sherlock was dressed and waiting at the door when Greg went to leave for work for the day.

“Sherlock, I don’t know that there’s going to be a great case for you. It might just be old cold cases.” He rubbed the back of his neck and looked at Sherlock, worried that he would let the overly excited younger man down.  Sherlock only grinned and pulled tighter the long, tailored, wool coat he wore.

“Irrelevant.  It will be a puzzle and that is what matters.” Greg fidgeted and Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Whatever question you desire to ask, feel free to do so.”

“Why? I mean, you’re well read, well educated, obviously have had the opportunities to have a life and a career but you still were on drugs.  Why did you suddenly change your mind?” He stared at Sherlock and waited for him to formulate an answer as they walked the short distance to New Scotland Yard.

“It was a perfectly balanced equation.” When he was met with a confused stare he went on. “I’d started to get bored with the drugs. Moreover, I’d never really been presented with something that was a high stakes puzzle.  It made everything more exciting.  It wasn’t words on a page; it was a body in front of me.  I’d never actually done that before, be at a crime scene.  So it created a perfectly balanced equation that pushed me to move on with my life.”

Greg nodded thoughtfully and held the door open for Sherlock. “Well, I’m glad I could help.”

“Oh you did nothing to help.  You were merely present.  Like an inactive ingredient.” Sherlock swept past him and Greg could only roll his eyes. As fate had it there was a nice and exciting homicide sitting on his desk for him when he walked in. Sherlock tagged along as his team loaded into cars and went to the site. It was his sergeant and the closest thing he currently had to a friend, Sally,who first mentioned Sherlock. While Greg was driving she leaned over and whispered to him so Sherlock, who was in the back seat, couldn’t hear.

“Who’s the guy?” She tilted her head towards the back. 

“Consultant.  He’s a bloody genius and is thinking of helping us out a bit in the future.” Greg shrugged. 

Sally only raised her eyebrows and nodded. “He’s cute.”  Sherlock must have been able to hear them as he chose this moment to interject.

“You slept with a man last night, not one you know, a random one.  Judging by the state of your hair and the fact that it’s down even though it should probably be up, I’m guessing he was rough.  Taking that into consideration I can heartily tell you that you are not my type nor could ever be so whether or not you find me ‘cute’ is irrelevant and, if anything, mildly offensive as I prefer to be judged on my intellect and not physical appearance.” During the whole time he spoke, Sherlock continued to look out the window with a look of dejected boredom on his face.  Sally turned in her seat to stare at him, mouth open.  After a minute she turned back around and shook her head.

“Freak. And we don’t have consultants.”

Greg looked in his rearview mirror to watch Sherlock’s reactions to Sally’s harsh words and tone.  The corner of Sherlock’s mouth turned up slowly as he turned to face forward and addressed Sally directly.  “You do now, Sergeant Donovan. I am your Consulting Detective and freak or not, at the end of the day I’m still smarter than you.”

Greg tried not to laugh at Sally’s face and instead changed the subject. “Consulting Detective? Sherlock that’s not an actual job.”

“It is now.  I just invented it.  And it’s what I am.”

Greg was in the process of constructing what was sure to be a cutting retort when they arrived at the site.  He sighed and stopped the car. “Okay.  So the victim is—” he was cut off by Sherlock raising up a hand.

“Please, Detective Inspector, I don’t want to hear any details.  The person who took them down probably got them all wrong, anyways.  I’d prefer to see this with only my eyes.” He proceeded to stride around the crime scene for the next half hour.  He didn’t listen to a word Greg said about contamination of evidence, lifted a hand magnifier from someone on the forensics team, and spent almost ten minutes shouting with Sally and suddenly finding the head of Greg’s forensics guys, Anderson, to be endlessly annoying even though poor Anderson said nothing.  By the end of the half hour Greg had a splitting headache and was about to start resigning himself to this having been the stupidest decision he’d ever made when Sherlock calmly walked up to him and held out three bags of evidence.  One held the victim’s phone, one his wallet, and one held a note with an address on it.  Greg just took the bags and stared at them. 

“What are these?”

“What you need to find the killer.”

“Okay.  But how do these find me the killer?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and began talking very quickly.  “The address is an unknown.  It’s not that of his business partner, which is saved in his phone with his contact information.  Also this wallet is new. Old shoes new wallet.  That means that someone would be seeing the wallet regularly.  If you look at the past text messages you will find that he and his business partner, Kyle, had been fighting over vanishing profits.  So it would seem that he was gambling away their profits.”

Greg nodded slowly.  “So he killed him?”

Sherlock scoffed and looked at him like he was an amoeba. “No.  He’s a kind hearted and gentle man. He would never do that.  The people he was gambling with killed him.  Notice that his wallet has no paper money in it.  While many people use only plastic money these days, the victim takes taxis often.  Look at the lint on the back of his jacket, that same nubby brown from the older taxi cabs.  So he should have paper money in his wallet.  But there is none. Moreover, he’s missing his watch and keys. Two things that his trousers and shirt sleeve say he always has with him.  But the fabric isn’t disturbed which means they weren’t removed post mortem. The wallet has a scrape on it from someone with a ring removing it.  The victim has no ring.  

When you put it all together you see that he knew he was meeting someone shady. He left his watch and keys so they wouldn’t be taken.  If the profits were entirely gone, as the texts suggest, then that means this man gambled them away.  And that means he probably had debts. Judging from the gunshot wound and how point blank it was, I’d say he tried to reason with the men and was shot.  They took what cash he had and left.  Considering that there are no prints anywhere, it was men used to dealing with this sort of thing.  I’d look around the gambling rings.  If the victim’s debts, which the texts about profits suggest are not terribly grand, were enough to drive the men to murder, they probably had debts of their own.  The Vorachi family was just officially outed by other gambling and gang circles due to their egregious debts.  I’d start with them.” Sherlock pulled up the collar of his coat and smirked a little as he started to walk off.  Greg just gaped at him, seeing it all slide into place and make sense as Sherlock pointed out the connections and logical bridges he’d missed.  He jogged to catch up with him.

“Sherlock, that was amazing. I could do without the sass, but the point still stands.”

Sherlock glared. “There was no ‘sass’. Does this mean I’ve got a job?”

“Yes.  On a case by case basis.  I can pay you but only after we catch the criminal.  And I’m only bringing you in on the big things.  You’re not actually a member of the team.” Greg noticed something in Sherlock’s face.  Almost like sadness but it was too cased in ice for him to be sure. Sherlock only nodded and held out his hand which Greg shook.

“Acceptable terms.” Sherlock started walk away when he paused and turned, frowning. “My brother is going to contact you.”

“Okay?”

“He has a minor position in the British government, or so he says.  But really he is the British Government.  So don’t anger him.”

“Right.  I still don’t know why you need tell me this.”

Sherlock sighed and ran a hand over his face tiredly, suddenly looking older than he was. “Mycroft is overprotective to say the least.  And if you think I am a man of extremes and theatrics,” he raised his eyebrows, “Mycroft is far worse. He refuses to simply call or text like a normal human and, instead, opts to kidnap people.  A black car will show up and somehow you will be coerced into it. From there he’ll take you to an abandoned building of some kind and either try and bribe you to spy on me or threaten you to take care of me.  I’m an adult.  I can care for myself.  As for the spying, feel free to take his bribe if he offers it. I don’t care.” 

Greg just stared for a moment. “So you’re telling me that your brother, who is some kind of government secret agent, is going to kidnap me to protect and take care of you?”

Sherlock nodded and grinned, a chuckle escaping his lips.  “As I said, he’s much worse than I.”

Greg rolled his eyes and sighed. “Seems so.  Thanks for the heads up. And idea why in the world he finds in necessary to do this?”

Sherlock grinned, “Theirs is not to reason why, theirs is but to do and die.”

“Yes, quote Tennyson.  That makes me feel entirely better about all of this.” Greg made a wide gesture, making sure to include Sherlock in it.

Sherlock smiled and turned to walk away. He held up his phone as he walked. “Text when you have another case.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from The Charge of the Light Brigade by Tennyson. 
> 
> "'Forward, the Light Brigade!'  
> Was there a man dismay'd ?  
> Not tho' the soldier knew  
> Some one had blunder'd:  
> Theirs not to make reply,  
> Theirs not to reason why,  
> Theirs but to do & die,  
> Into the valley of Death  
> Rode the six hundred. "


End file.
